Chapter 443

The black dragon Dany rode began its fiery breath as it descended to a height of twenty or thirty meters. Below, the wall of flame lit by the Northern army outside their defenses, though not strong enough to fully repel the wights' assault, served as the perfect beacon for Daenerys to distinguish friend from foe and execute her dives with precision. The dragon's massive column of flame didn’t just target a single point—it carved across the wight horde like a divine plow, slicing the tide of undead from east to west. In its wake, charred paths and countless flaming wights split the army into two, halting their once-unstoppable advance toward the Northern lines.

As Drogon struck first, Viserion and Rhaegal followed suit, their fiery breath turning the barren plains beside the Long Lake into an inferno. The battlefield blazed with chaotic beauty, the spectacle resembling a firework display from hell.
----


Watching the three dragons circling low over the battlefield, slaughtering wights like living flamethrowers, Aegor’s heart clenched with unease.

Once they had caught up with the enemy’s tail and battle seemed imminent, Daenerys had abandoned her carriage after dinner and mounted Drogon. Now airborne, there was no way for Aegor to communicate with her—no magical device to convey orders. The result of relying solely on tacit understanding was disastrous: before the Gift army even reached the battlefield, barely a mile away, the three dragons had already soared overhead, impatiently throwing themselves into the fray.

Aegor had repeatedly emphasized, and Daenerys had agreed, that the dragons would only enter the fight once the ground troops had engaged. But now… perhaps she considered the Northern army’s clash with the wights sufficient to fulfill that condition, or she had simply overestimated the dragons' strength and underestimated the Gift army's pace. Either way, she had ignored his warnings and charged ahead.

There was no point cursing or stomping his feet now. The only option left for the Gift army was to rush forward, support the dragons, and share the burden, while also preparing for any unforeseen disasters.

"Archers, listen carefully," Aegor said, his voice calm yet firm as he addressed his core fighters. "Once we enter the fray, your first target is the Others. Your second target—should it happen—is any dragon that crashes to the ground and shows no signs of life. Ensure they do not rise as our enemies."

“Understood.”

“Yes, my lord!”

“No problem.”

Hearing their resolute responses, Aegor nodded and took a deep breath. Drawing his sword, he turned to the soldiers behind him and bellowed, “Warriors, the final hour is upon us! Full assault!”

If the terrain had been flat, a mile-long sprint would have been over in moments. But wading through snow made the charge difficult, the formation stretching into a long line as individual stamina varied. Yet Aegor couldn’t afford to wait. The queen’s impatience had thrown their carefully crafted tactics into disarray. Reaching the battlefield quickly and preventing the rise of a wight dragon was now more important than maintaining formation.

To the sound of blaring horns, the Gift army abandoned their supply wagons. From the Night’s Watch Lord Commander to the cooks pressed into service, every soldier raised their weapons and charged toward the chaos, shouting battle cries.
----


The wights suffered heavy losses, and the situation grew increasingly desperate. Yet, to the Chief Priest of the Cold God, everything was going as planned—the dragons were out in the open. That alone made all the sacrifices worthwhile.

Transferring control of the wights to his fellow priests, the Chief Priest focused entirely on the dragons. Clutching the magical ice spear left by the Night King, he gathered every ounce of concentration, watching the creatures’ movements.

He allowed the dragons to complete their first dive unchallenged, observing their speed, altitude, and preferred flight paths. Only after collecting this critical information did he begin selecting a target.

Raising such massive bodies into the air, even with hollow bones and specialized anatomy, was no easy feat. Injure their wings, and even the strongest dragon would be forced to the ground. If the dragons dared to make a second dive, he and the remaining priests were confident they could bring all three down. But bringing them down was one thing; killing them was another. And to turn the tide of this battle, it wasn’t enough to merely kill the dragons—they had to be claimed.

Dragons, as magical creatures, were infused with innate fire-aligned magic. While their magical density couldn’t compare to the pure magical essence of the Others, their enormous size made their total magic reserves astronomical. Even if a dragon were to drop dead at the Chief Priest’s feet, cleansing it of fire magic and turning it into a puppet would require power beyond what the current priesthood could muster without the full strength of the Night King.

The only solution lay in the Night King’s masterpiece: the magical ice spear. This singular, peerless weapon, imbued with vast amounts of cold magic, could neutralize a dragon’s fire-aligned magic upon piercing its body. Once the fire magic was extinguished, injecting cold magic to reanimate the corpse would be far easier.

The plan was simple: strike one dragon down with the ice spear, then use projectiles—stones or other means—to cripple the wings of the remaining two. Once the first dragon was reanimated, it would dominate the skies, secure control over the wights, and ensure victory from above, where no human could reach them.
----


The dragons, having completed their first pass of fire, circled the battlefield and returned for another. Unchallenged thus far, they grew bolder, flying lower. For the ice spear, it didn’t matter which dragon it hit—any strike would be fatal. But to the Chief Priest, it was crucial to choose carefully, ensuring a quick reanimation.

As the dragons began their second dive, he locked onto his target: the smallest and closest dragon.

With no hesitation, he drew upon the memories inherited from the Night King and fed the flight data he had gathered into his mental calculations. In an instant, he adjusted his stance, aimed, and hurled the spear.

The sharp whistle of the spear was drowned out by the cacophony of battle—human screams, horn blasts, and the roars of dragons. In the chaos of firelight, the spear’s faint glow was nearly invisible. The moment the dragons opened their jaws to unleash another round of flame, the smallest dragon—Viserion—let out a heart-wrenching cry. Its body wavered, its wings folding as it plummeted toward the wight horde it had intended to incinerate.

The dragon crashed with a deafening thud, carving a deep trench through the snow and wights alike, crushing hundreds beneath its massive form. When it finally came to rest, it lay motionless, silent amidst the chaos.

"Viserion!" Daenerys screamed, her voice breaking as she called her dragon’s name. She urged Drogon to continue his fiery assault while steering toward the fallen dragon, desperate to protect her child.

But the tragedy didn’t end there. Following the Chief Priest’s success, the remaining Others launched their own projectiles at Drogon and Rhaegal. Stones and spears shattered harmlessly against their thick chest scales, but those that struck their wings pierced membrane and muscle alike, disrupting their flight.

Though they didn’t crash like Viserion, both Drogon and Rhaegal let out roars of pain and were forced to descend, gliding toward the ground in furious, flame-filled defiance.